they don't tell you
that instead of the dreamy, dusty pink
cradling your body in rose
the water will turn a translucent orange
murky and sickening
sticky like an insect trapped in slow-moving sap
they don't tell you
that past a certain point there are no nerves
but that you can hear the sound of the
slash
through your tissue
they don't tell you
that you can see your flesh knitting itself
back together
only for you to stretch it and pull it apart again
with your stained, wrinkled fingers
they don't tell you
that when it doesn't work
when you're too tired to carry on
the draining bath water leaves a stain on the tub
a scar
and it gurgles as it falls
a failed death rattle.
YOU ARE READING
Hysteria
Poetrya collection of my poetry for the world to pick apart. warning: some of these poems contain themes of mental illness, self-harm, and attempted suicide. if these are likely to upset you, i would advise against reading.
